


Resistentialism

by greenapricot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-22
Updated: 2004-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>resistentialism (ri-zis-TEN-shul-iz-um) n. The theory that inanimate objects demonstrate hostile behavior against us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resistentialism

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2004, a time before Louis Cordice was cast as Blaise when my headcanon Blaise was played by a young Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.

They lurk in the dark and the shadows beneath the bed curtains, quills on the floor with bent tips, sharp ends pointing up into soft flesh as he makes his way to bed. A sharp sting just on the upcurve of the arch. _/he should have checked the bed, he should have checked, he must always check the corners_ / Then; drops of red, bright on grey stone, as he hobble-walks gingerly toward the bathroom, and one drop of startling crimson on white tile before he reaches the sink and brings his foot up and over, and a sharp pain in his ankle as the creamy porcelain tries to stop him on the way by. 

The knobs don’t turn in the right direction, and the water is too cold and too hot and his foot comes away red of a different sort. The towel is not there, it is avoiding his touch, hiding in the corner behind the toilet. Wet feet slide on smooth tile and he grasps at the mirror for support.

The face that gazes back at him is not familiar. The eyes are wild and too dark, iris obscured by pupil. The hair like briers, like the wind, curls spiraling around ears and nose and mouth; tickling and teasing and choking, lips bitten redder than red, and dry. His throat is dry. 

The hand on the mirror is alien, spider white against dark reflection but it moves when he thinks it should. The cup on the vanity is already edging away as wet fingers brush the lip and it shatters on impact with the tile floor, a shower of sparks, shards thrown in all directions, before he can get out of the way. The shards glitter, deadly and inviting. _/and he must pick them up, he must check under the sink/_

They are pretty in his hand, they wink and taunt until he closes his hand to shut them up, to stop them looking. 

Crimson flows slowly down his wrist.


End file.
